


Haven't Heard of You

by Bluandorange



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Remix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:12:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8368417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/pseuds/Bluandorange
Summary: Remix of Turn Back the Clock; When Steve tries to stop a wizard from robbing banks on Broadway, he ends up hit with a spell that leaves him 10 inches shorter, 145 pounds lighter, and convinced the year's still 1943. Luckily (or unluckily) the rest of the Avengers get to him before the Winter Soldier can.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Turn Back the Clock](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1561445) by [Bluandorange](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluandorange/pseuds/Bluandorange). 



> Went through my drafts and realized I had a good chapter and a half of this written. Thought I'd put it up at least to see what you guys think. This is basically my reply to Civil War; make Tony and Skinny!Steve talk a whole lot and damn the consequences.

“Uh, Stark? I think I found him.”

Steve looks up, squinting at the figure looming over him. He can’t rightly trust his eyes right now–they hurt something awful, aching deep in their sockets from just about any sunlight–but it _looks_  like a tall man in armor of some kind, dark and accented in red. He’s pulling his glasses–no, wait, goggles–from his head as he kneels in front of Steve. As his features come into focus, Steve realizes he has beautiful, if worried, eyes. 

“Steve?” asks the man. “Steve Rogers?” 

Steve lifts his eyes from the man’s mouth–he has a gap in his teeth, its endearing. God but his head hurts. Christ, he must’ve been out drinking last night. That has to be what this is. Steve lifts his eyes from the man’s mouth then drops them to look at himself; slumped against the wall of an alley, clothes a rumpled mess, tie loose, knees stained. He’d woken up in a pile of garbage maybe…ten minutes ago? He’s still trying to recover and here comes tall dark and handsome asking for him by name? 

He keeps his face neutral as he answers, “Who’s askin’?” his eyes only meeting the man’s again once the words have left his mouth. He hopes his cheeks aren’t giving his shame away, but it doesn’t feel like they are. Likely too strung-out to blush. 

The man stares back at him, eyes still for a moment, and then searching, trying to pull something from Steve’s expression. What, he’s no idea. Feeling in no state to deal with much of anything, Steve finds it hard to give a damn when his impatience starts showing on his face. Finally, the man lets out a breath and stands, stepping away to look down the entrance to the alley. He puts a finger to his ear and says “Y’all are not gonna believe this.”

Steve closes his eyes and lets his head lean back against the bricks. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next time Steve looks up, there’s a lil’ congregation out at the alley front. The man with the kind eyes and gap in his teeth is standing around talking with a man dressed as a gaudy robot and a red-head in form-fitting black leather. 

Steve looks up from her curves to realize she’s staring back at him.

The heat he didn’t feel in his face before comes rushing up his neck. He gives the woman a polite nod and immediately turns his gaze forward, to the wall directly across from him. 

He should go. He should really go. He can’t just sit here like a lush, nursing a hang-over he’s no right to have in the back of a dirty alley. 

Gotta get home. Gotta wash up. Gotta...gotta find out if there’s another recruitment center in Jersey and where the hell he’s gonna get the money for the ride down there and back.

Slowly, Steve stands and feels his pockets. Apartment key, stubby pencil, some paper–not a dime, nickle or penny. Either he drank all his money away or whatever didn't go down the bottle got taken. With that pleasant revelation, he’s a little less surprised by waking up in the goddamn trash. It is, after all, a pretty standard place to put yer drunken marks when you're done with them.

Steve takes a slow breath and commits to the task of leaving this God forsaken Alley. He stands, straightens his tie, re-tucks the tails of his shirt into his trousers and tries to finger comb his hair into something more presentable. He’s gonna find out where the hell he is, and then he’s gonna find his way home, and then he’s gonna _get_ home, even if it means walking the goddamn length of the Brooklyn Bridge. 

He turns to go only to realize the three strangers have their eyes on him. He immediately ducks their collective gaze and starts on his way, forcing stiff legs to take him past the odd lil' gathering. He mutters “’scuse me,” as he passes. 

Half a step later, someone says “Wait.” and takes him by the arm. Steve twists on reflex, turning to find the dame holding him by the bicep. She breaks into a smile so unexpected, he forgets what he was about to say. “Don’t go just yet,” she says.

“Ma’am,” Steve says, when he finally works his tongue free from the roof of his mouth. 

“Did he just ‘ma’am’ you?” asks the man wearing the red armor. He steps closer to them, and Steve can tell his costume is heavy just from how his boots hit the pavement. He tries not to stare as the man continues. “Is that normal,” he asks the woman. “It’s just, I’m just having a hard time, you know, telling if there’s any recognition what with the–” he motions to Steve, his head and shoulders “–resting bitch face.” 

Steve takes in a slow breath to stave off the red threatening to cloud his vision. Who the fuck did this guy think–

“Do you know who we are?” asks the woman. 

“…should I?” replies Steve. The man in armor immediately starts to complain–”Oh this is just _great”–_ while the other two exchange a silent glance. 

Several things click in Steve’s head in rapid succession. The costumes, the want for recognition, the knowing him by name. 

“Look,” Steve says, cutting off the armor man and whatever he’s cursing about, “I’ll do a commission for you, or your show or…” he shrugs. “But my rate’s still three, five and ten.”

The trio stare at him, like suddenly he started speaking a different language. Steve represses the urge to roll his eyes–they tracked him down for a poster but didn’t think to ask anyone about his rates? 

“Three dollars for head," says Steve, evenly, "five for torso, ten for full body. And that’s in color. No, I don’t recognize your gimmick, so if you were lookin’ for a discount, I’m sorry, I gotta eat, too.” 

The cute guy with the gap slowly lets his mouth fall open. The woman’s mouth is twisted like she’s fighting back a smile. Armor asshole breaks into a peel of surprised laughter. 

It’s clear to Steve that this is not a very good morning. That, and he has no where near enough patience for whatever the hell is happening to him right now. If they aren't gonna pay, he's really got to start heading home. Steve gives them a nod, a forced smile, and turns to go. 

“I’ll pay you twenty-five dollars,” says the woman. 

Steve stops. He doesn’t want to, but he does, because if she’s good for it, that’s a lotta green Steve’s hurting for. He turns back around.

“Two full body and a torso,” he says. 

“Sure,” says the woman, “but you have to come back to our studio.”

“To do what, I don’ have my supplies–”

“We have paper and pencils, it’ll be a good start, right?” 

Steve looks at her, at her pretty smile, then at the men with her. They seem less sure, but the moment they realize Steve’s eyes are on them, they nod. 

“…I want ten up front," Steve says, because this? This feels shady. This feels dangerous and Steve can’t make heads or tails of this fucking woman, but she pulls out a wallet and hands him a crisp ten dollar bill. Steve turns it over in his hands–here’s his ticket to Jersey, right here–before folding and pocketing it. He gives the woman a nod. 

“Arright,” he says. “Lead the way.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So.”

Steve catches the inside of his cheek between his teeth. This should go well. Red and gold armor man wants to strike up a conversation. Only good things can come from this. 

“So,” says armor man, “what’s a kid like you gonna do with, uh, a whole twenty five dollars?”

Steve’s teeth pinch down and he focuses on that little pinprick of pain until the urge to be nasty passes. 

“Well, y’know, the automat ain’t free.” 

He’s expecting some crap about how that can’t possibly be where all his money’s gonna be going, but instead the guy just looks confused. “Uh, right.” is all he comes back with. 

The things wrong with this picture just keep piling up and Steve takes a step back into his skepticism. He can still feel the ten bucks in his pocket. The idea of just ditching them is mighty tempting. 

But he’s not a kid anymore, and if word got around that he was ducking paying customers, he’d lose what little business he has making money off his art. And, really, isn’t that all he has left? 

“How’d you hear about me, anyways,” he says. 

“Oh, you know,” says armor man, “through the usual channels.” 

Pointedly vague. This guy is doing a shit job of making Steve want to stay. Steve drags his fingers through his hair and pretends he’s not bothered. Plays casual. 

“You do Drag on the side?”

The man in armor twists to look at him, stammering a half-amazed, “I’m sorry, _what_?” 

“Car’s almost here,” says the woman conversationally, but armor man waves her off. Despite the weight of the suit, he seems able to gesture wildly just fine.

“No, no, wait, _drag_? What’s that mean–that’s got to mean something other than what I think it means.” The man in armor is nearly giddy. 

Steve sighs. “Arright, what the hell is this?” 

“I think this is you asking me if I wear a dress on the weekends?”

“Yeah,” says Steve, “an’ why’s that so surprising?” 

The man seems gobsmacked and keeps turning to his companions, motioning for them to help him, since Steve has apparently struck him speechless. 

Steve continues, “y’found me through the ‘usual channels’. The only reliable work I get are from the Drag shows, so I figure either you frequent or you take the stage. Not ‘round DUMBO, otherwise I’d recognize ya–”

“Steve,” the man says, clearly attempting a calm, even tone despite the delight in his eyes. “Do you go to Drag Shows in Brooklyn?”

“Car’s here,” says the other man, but Steve is stuck to the pavement. He’s got a choice to make, here, either he tries to walk with the money or he stands on principle and hands it back. 

It’s his ticket to Jersey and more besides, but dammit. 

He pulls it out and presses it to the man in armor’s chest, right over the light bulb he has embedded in his chest plate. “Y’can have this back,” he says, before turning to go.

There's maybe a second of silence before the man starts calling after him. Steve can even hear the thud of his boots over the rising thrum of blood in his ears as the guy rushes past him and cuts him off. It's a heavy suit, and maybe that's why Steve stops, or maybe he's just stupid and wants answers.

"Are you seriously running out on twenty five dollars? Cmon. Tell you what, I'll make it an even fifty." 

"Sure you will," says Steve.

"What? I'm good for it. I promise you I am a man who can spare fifty whole dollars on a, a starving artist." 

"The spring ball comes up in a couple'a weeks," Steve says, and it's true. He hadn't remembered it until now, but its true and he feels a little surer about his choices as that realization sets in. "I think I'm gonna be fine, stickin' to the customers I trust. Now, I'm gonna go home, so why don't you find some other guy to harass?" 

"Harass?!" 

"Steve," says the good looker with the gap in his teeth. He's coming around to stand beside the asshole in red and gold. "Cmon, I think...we got off on the wrong foot here. My friend, Tony, he runs his mouth, y'know? But we're reasonable people."

"Then what is this?" asks Steve. "Really?"

The asshole, Tony, glances at his friend, who has the dawning look of someone who has not thought past the current point in the conversation. "Well, Sam?" prompts Tony. "Go ahead. I would, but. Y'know how I get, running my mouth--"

"Yeah," says Sam "yer doing it right now."

"Am I?"

"Actually, you are."

And now Steve's patience has officially, definitively run out. Time to put his small stature to good use and squeeze through these two stooges before they make his hang-over even worse. 

Only when he's done slipping through, the red-headed broad is on the other side, arms crossed, looking imposing enough to stop Steve cold. 

"What the hell is this?" Steve blurts, surprised and frustrated and--god, he just cursed at a dame. That's how not equipped he is for this circus of a conversation. 

The dame, to her credit, doesn't bat an eyelash. "If you don't come with us willingly," she says "I'll make Sam throw you over his shoulder and carry you." Her eyebrow arches in a way that gives Steve the distinct impression she knows exactly how Steve would feel about that, right down to the small shred of his little fairy heart that would be fucking thrilled to be man-handled by mister-cute-tooth-gap.

She does not appear to be joking. 

"I'll do it if he doesn't," says Tony.

" _Fine_ ," says Steve. "Just--fine."


End file.
